


Lachesis Lane

by Cluegirl



Series: The Moirae Set [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:29:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluegirl/pseuds/Cluegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry checks up on Snape's house on his way to visit his mum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lachesis Lane

Harry turned left at the bottom of Lachesis lane, and stopped for a moment, as he always did when he came this way, to look at Spinner's End.

There was a light on in the parlour, warm and golden through the drawn curtains, another in the upstairs window, that flickered and danced in a way not even the cleverest electric light could imitate. Harry imagined Snape brewing up there, and had to smile. If Harry'd been forced to spend twenty years living in a dungeon, he'd probably choose the highest, airiest room for his own too, and bugger anyone who complained of funky smells or random explosions.

Not that Snape had that to worry about now, of course.

Nobody but Harry knew for certain the man was alive, let alone where to look for him if they took a notion to go sniffing after the Dark Hero's quick, quiet funeral with its closed and empty casket. Common understanding held it that Snape's body had been destroyed when the Shrieking Shack burned to the ground on the night of the Battle of Hogwarts. And generally, Harry found that people were plenty willing to take his word about Snape's true character, and to believe him innocent, misunderstood, and heroic, when there was no danger of his belittling them for it in person.

Alive, Snape had been universally loathed for his mean, hateful ways. Dead, he could be the Dumbledore's man, through and through.

And Harry, his own man now that Dumbledore's hold on his life had been exorcized along with Voldemort's, had found it not only easy, but deeply satisfying to use his newfound authority at the Ministry to quietly edit out the tracks Severus Snape had left when he dragged himself out of the shack, and left his slavery burning behind him. The address of Spinner's end no longer lead to anyone named Snape on any public record. Hogwarts’ Book of Letters connected the house with Eileen Prince, and with a new owner by the name of S. Fitzroy. (Harry allowed himself to feel a bit clever about that idea.) Severus Snape’s Gringotts accounts were, of course, available to anyone who showed the key, since the Goblins didn’t care about a client’s standing in Wizarding law, but Harry’d quietly slipped a Will into the proper files all the same, just to grease the wheels. Even the re-organized Owl Post service had no records of any deliveries to Severus Snape anywhere except at Hogwarts, and a private box in Hogsmeade.

Narcissa Malfoy had revealed Snape’s survival, and his home to Harry after the dust settled, wanting Harry’s oath that he would not allow the new Ministry to find the man. She owed Snape a debt of blood, she explained, for his protection of Draco. And since Harry owed her a lifedebt as well, she meant to see the two slates wiped clear with the gesture, even to the point of expecting Harry to _obliviate_ all memory of the place, and of having found Snape alive there from her memory once the oath was sealed.

Harry had agreed readily, and had gone on to browbeat the Ministry, the Auror corps, the Order, and the Press out of any ideas that Snape deserved reprisals. For once, Harry’s celebrity had come in handy.

It couldn't begin to repay Harry's debt to Snape himself -- Harry couldn't imagine any action of his being a patch on the incredible tally Severus Snape had built up in his seven years' watch over Harry's daredevil teenage years, -- but Harry reckoned that public recognition, coupled with actual privacy was probably the one thing he could do that the prickly man would appreciate.

Possibly.

Had he known about it.

Harry hadn't ever told him. Hadn’t even so much as spoken to the man, or met his eyes since he’d found the house, and decided on his plan. He imagined Snape would be quite savage if he thought Harry expected gratitude, and really, it was enough to know that the man was alive -- that he had comfort, quiet, and peace, at least.

Harry liked to imagine there was also happiness in Snape’s life now that there were no students, no Death Eater meetings, and no Marauders left to worry about. He liked to picture Snape in book-filled rooms, with his hair cropped care-free and short in the absence of Wizarding pretensions. His face would be tanned from working in that splendid garden, relaxed from plenty of sleep, and the absence of two masters expecting him to crawl. Maybe once in awhile, knowing that nobody was looking, Snape would even smile, as he had done back when Harry's mum had been there for him.

Harry knew he would never see that smile outside of a pensieve, but on nights like this one, he liked to try and imagine how it might look. When the Weasleys were caught up in a tight, sad tangle around the one they had lost, and Harry couldn’t bear the thought of trying to fit himself anywhere within. When the press of people wanting Harry, needing Harry, a favour, his help, his money, his attention, made him feel he’d never rest again. When the papers fed his every move to their gossip engines, and he was as likely to see transcript of a teatime spat with Ginny on the front page, as an invoice of his underwear drawer. When he'd spent yet another thankless day unraveling the squalid decay of Voldemort's Ministry and Auror corps, trying to sort out habit, laziness, fear, and baseless tradition from actual corruption. When it seemed as if the world Harry had saved expected him to carry it about in his pocket, it calmed him to imagine how Snape might look when he smiled.

He didn't need to see it, but he could picture it. Those thin, hard lips would relax, soften, and perhaps go a bit pink once the blood wasn't being scowled out of them. The black brows would un-knot, the deep grooves running down from his great nose would ease, and then begin to curve oh-so slightly the other way. Just a bit, just a touch, just an unfamiliar, upswept shadow at the corner of his mouth while he read, or brewed, or possibly watched the telly he'd had delivered to the house at Christmastime.

Harry didn't need to see it at all. In fact, Harry rather doubted that the smile in his imagination and he himself could even exist in the same place at the same time. Seven years of sneers and smirks and nasty leers in Harry’s direction would surely be a tough habit for Snape to break, even if he were inclined to try. Harry was under no illusion that Snape’s softness toward his mother meant any change in the bitter history that lay between them now: why should Snape hate Harry any less now that Harry knew the painful secret that lay behind all those bitter, angry glares?

No. He had no intention of inflicting himself on his old Professor now. The man had earned his privacy, and aside from checking up on him once in awhile, Harry meant to leave him to it. It hadn’t been Snape that had drawn Harry up to Yorkshire tonight, anyhow.

The upstairs light went out all at once. Harry imagined a wand-flick at a cauldron that needed only now to rest. As good a cue to be on his way as any, he supposed.

Pulling up his jacket collar, Harry turned his nose to the wind, smelling snow and soot over the river’s pong. The old playground would be empty on such a night as this, and perhaps, if Harry was lucky, he might find a shadow of a quieter, simpler time in that small, forgotten place.


End file.
